Matt's Psych Journal
by The Nearly Missed
Summary: In addition to Mello's Psych Journal, I bestow upon you Matt's journal, as well! "Do I really have to write in this damn thing every. Single. Day!" Rated T for language, "slightly illegal activities," and adult themes. Do not own Death Note.
1. Chapter 1

2-8-04

I should write stuff about myself. That's about all I was told. No junk on whatever the hell I did during the day (slept through class, played videogames, a couple more slightly illegal activities). It's only supposed to be my _feelings._

Now, I'm not a really touchy-feely guy. I never have been, and I probably won't ever be. I don't get sentimental over anything. More often than not, if I somehow feel anything about anything I turn it into a joke or a sarcastic remark. People haven't figured that out yet. Or maybe they have? How the hell should I know? I try to spend as little time outside my room as possible.

The only reason I spend so much time in my room is because I've got one to myself. My other roommate moved out a little while ago, as he was a couple years older than me and got offered to work on some project in some foreign country I don't care to think hard enough to remember the name of. I don't really care. He's gone. I'm alone. That's the important part, the part that I like the most.

If I _did_ have a roommate, I wouldn't spend as much time in my room. I'd probably spend more time bugging Mello, or I'd find somewhere else that isn't my room, the dining room, or the library to hide out. It'd probably end up being the AV Club's storage room. There's power in there, a television, and a billion and a half places to hide certain things including said illegal activities and videogames. And there's a window in there. I'm also not a part of that club, though I'd for sure improve any project they did thousand-fold. They aren't as good as they think they are at their "jobs."

Oh, right, feelings…

Ummmmmmmm. I'm Matt, if the name on the front of this notebook wasn't clear enough. Also if it wasn't clear enough, I'm a videogame nerd. Or any kind of computer nerd. Yes, I identify as a nerd. I full accept that fact. I participate in a few aforementioned illegal activities that I won't write down until I'm sure no one will read this. If Ed wants to read this, what the fuck ever. There are plenty of illegal activities, and none you could immediately point out that have to do with me, other than possibly hacking. And you said we could curse in these, since they're _our_ journals, so I'm taking fucking advantage of that.

Right. Feelings. Damn it, it's harder to stay on topic than I thought it was. ADD'll do that to you.

At this very moment in time, I'm bored. What else is new? I mean, _really?_ I'm always bored. Nothing's challenging here, even though Wammy's is supposed to be the highest level school for "gifted children" in the world. Yeah, I'm only third in the rankings, but that's only because _I don't fucking care._ I could take over in a day if I wanted to. But I don't. I'm perfectly happy being the carefree, genius slacker.

Speaking of which, how long does this things have to be? A page a day? Two? Three? Hmm. I think I'll just pretend I can't write as fast as I can and say it's been fifteen minutes. Yeah, that'll work. And I'll pray to whatever mystical being you believe in that Edman doesn't wanna read this.

~Matt

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**A/N: **And here it is! The first of hopefully fifteen chapters full of Matt ranting. I hope you're prepared! ;D

Remember: reviews always make my days, and keep me writing! :D

I really hope you enjoy!

Oh, and if you're interested in _Mello's Psych Journal_ as well I have already completed his side of this assignment. Thank you so much for reading! :)


	2. Chapter 2

3-8-04

Nope, not a soul but me is ever gonna read this. Imagine me skipping through a field of poppies and dandelions, singing all the while.

Yeah, don't do that; it'll never happen. Ew, nature.

Dirt is gross. Or whatever you want to call it. Soil, mud, silt, clay, sand, earth—it's all my enemy, no matter what alias it uses. I like to keep clean, and showering constantly is just way too much of a drag. It takes away my gaming and smoking time—now that I know this is completely private, I can write down my "slightly illegal" habit—or at least, one of them. Okay, yeah, I smoke. But I always change my clothes and brush my teeth afterward, I keep to myself in my room about it, and the window's always open. Except when it's raining—it's closed between cigs in that case. Nobody knows about that. At Wammy's, at least. I plan to keep it that way, lest that stick in the mud Roger will make me quit. It's none of his business what I put in my lungs.

People say I'm screwing up my life. I'm fourteen, smoking cigarettes like there's no tomorrow. So what? I make money from doing _other_ slightly illegal things, like the expected hacking, and I pick up a few boxes every trip into town on the weekends from one of my friends out there. It doesn't impede on anyone else—just a few minutes of paranoia for Adrian every time I sneak away from the group for a few minutes. But the guy's already got horrible anxiety; he'd worry about us getting kidnapped even if we were all chained together. He needs more confidence in himself and trust in us.

… Maybe he's got the right idea.

I mean, if he left us to our own devices in Winchester… _us, _a bunch of genius kids… yeah, that wouldn't end well for Winchester, and possibly some of us. I think Mello would knock Near out and drop him down a sewer. Not saying it's a completely _bad_ idea, but…

Whoa, I just got distracted. A lot. And now I have to fucking write around a rather large doodle of Mello stuffing Near in a sewer. Yeah, Mello has fangs. And he's holding a manhole cap. Don't judge my drawing skills. Heh… It's worth it.

What was I even talking about? Oh yeah, screwing up my life. Yep. I know it. That's about it. Oh, and those people I mentioned up there? Those are my internet friends, because I hate people face-to-face. But people online? People online aren't afraid to say they believe—or don't believe—in something. I've got a bunch of atheist, nerd, hacker friends I chat with online. I tell them a bunch about myself. Pretty much, take my chat history with a specific two of them, smoosh them together into something remotely coherent, and you'd get a good substitute for this journal. But alas, my history is automatically deleted, including any past conversations I may or may not have had. No complete slacking on this assignment. Only slight slacking.

How long has it been? Damn. Barely seven minutes. I could say who would really notice or I could say screw it and write another half page on something… Hmm…

I have ceiling stars. Yeah, I know it's wicked childish and "for babies," but I don't care. I _would_ arrange them into constellations, but that requires using the energy to stand up, take them down, think of a constellation, and put them back up in the form of said constellation. Too much effort on my part. Now, if I could get someone _else _to do that… Hm, maybe I could get Stella to do that…

What other things have I had other people do for me? I get people—mostly girls—to get me refills of my drinks at lunch almost every day. I'm too lazy to get up, but for some reason or another, they're always more than enthusiastic when I complain that my chocolate milk is empty.

I also got Sage to do my homework once or twice…

Has it been eight minutes yet? Fuck, only five.

What the hell. No one will read this shit anyway. Sims time. Maybe I _won't_ stay up to the ungodly hours of the late night-slash-early morning this time. Not likely, but maybe.

~Ginger-haired freak

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**A/N:** Matt, you little slacker you. c:

In case your interested as to what Matt's doodle look's like, it's on my DA, which is also nearlymissed. :D Or at least, my rendition that made me think it up. ;)

Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

4-8-04

Mixin' things up today! I'm not going to do this at night, but rather right now—lunchtime. I'm sitting here at my own little single table off in the corner of the cafeteria, writing with my left hand and shoveling down chicken pot pie with the right. Oh yeah, I'm a lefty. That explains the horrible quality of writing. Helps that I'm a guy, if you believe in stereotypes.

Damn, this stuff is good. I mean, I like the kitchen's pot pie and everything, but _this_ pot pie is freakin' amazing. Better than usual. Maybe they added some extra spice or something. I don't know what the hell they did to it, but they better keep fuckin' doing it.

I figure, though, that if I can get this done right now, I won't have to think as much later tonight, and I can dedicate more of my time to my video games, and smoke an extra cigarette without setting my journal on fire. Ha, that'd be something to try to explain. _Yeah, Edman. I blame spontaneous combustion. I don't know what the hell happened, but it just caught on fire. _That'd fly about as long as Near would if somebody threw him out a window. But I mean, I don't do anything else during lunch. If I can write and eat at the same time—fuck. Spoke too soon. Sauce: ALL OVER THAT LAST PARAGRAPH. Oops. Whatever, that page'll smell good now.

So I've had to shoo away three girls from pulling up a chair and sitting with me now. Granted, those three girls are the only ones who _ever_ _want_ to sit near me, but whatever. What does it matter? I do suppose it's nice having someone to retrieve things I forget or want more of. But I don't like chicks reading over my shoulder, especially when writing in this thing. I might just have to protect this thing with some sort of effort until it's all over and I can incinerate it.

Anyway.

Why the hell is this pot pie so good?!

I don't get why I hear so many people complaining about cafeteria food. It's _fucking delicious._ I mean, yeah, sure, maybe if I went to a public school like some of my online friends, then I'd have some right to complain. But I've never even been inside a public school before. My parents always went out of their way to make sure I and my siblings were always in private school. I repaid them by not trying at all. But the food was good. Wammy's is better.

Food is one of my favorite things in the world. It's number three on my list of absolutely necessary staples. Number one goes to sleep, two to videogames, three's food, and four's my laptop. Five would probably be something like the indoors. I'm not a camper, and if I was, I wouldn't be a happy one.

Heheh. I am not a happy camper. I should just be a fucking comedian.

But in addition to the majority of my day being spent playing videogames, I do savor my sleep _a lot._ Sleep is amazing. It is what literally keeps me going. It's the one thing I can be sure to look forward to almost every single night. I mean, _yeah_, all-nighters are a must whenever new videogames come out, but they're no fun without someone else. And with my habit of smoking while I play, that's not going to happen any time soon. So other than those few weekends of new releases, I try to get my needed eight hours of sleep. Hopefully more on Saturdays and Sundays.

I'm a really heavy sleeper, though. I've legitimately slept through about fifteen raging thunderstorms, a couple of which many of the other, younger students have gathered together in the library to wait out while watching a movie. I'm never there. Not that I would go even if I was awake, but that's beside the point. Without my rather loud and obnoxious alarm clock, you will not get me up without screaming in my ear and jumping on me repeatedly. I slept through Gary dumping a cup of water on my head once when the power was out from one of the aforementioned storms. Sure, I flipped out on him later, but I didn't wake up until I awoke naturally a full two hours later.

When I was little, I always used to be afraid of me in that way. I was afraid I'd sleep through a tornado or something, and the orphanage would get swept up and carried away. I'd be sound asleep within all the while, until it was finally dropped and I died amongst the debris. I was afraid the fire alarm would go off and I wouldn't be able to hear it and I'd burn up because I couldn't get out in time. I never liked sleeping when I was little because of those irrational fears. But now? Now, sleep is my best friend. I wouldn't part with it for the world.

My biggest nightmare is being diagnosed with insomnia. (How ironic, eh?)

Damn, bell's ringing. I'm going to be late for Biology. Gotta run.

~Lefty redhead

**A/N: **Happy Friday!

Have you ever tried to eat and write at the same time? Yeah, I can't even walk and chew gum. o.o

Hope you enjoyed, and reviews and constructive criticism always makes my day! ;D

Thank you all so much for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

5-8-04

Okay, _fine_, I fucking admit it.

Sage is a fucking cutie pie.

Now, I don't usually use that term, but I kind of have to for her. There's no other way to describe her. Between her big green eyes and red hair brighter than mine, I just want to give her a big hug and squeeze her. That sounded wrong.

But I mean, with the hair thing, hers is more _orange_ than mine. Mine's actually _red,_ mixed with brown or some junk—I dunno, you'd just have to see it to understand. I'm a genetic anomaly. But I don't have any existing photos of me, so suck it. Meet me in person.

But anyway. I really can't help it. Sage is really creepy on a personal level because she's absolutely in love with me, but she's still fucking adorable. It puts me in the perfect position to be the manipulative asshole all of my female friends online complain about, but I'm not that type of guy. Generally. I don't know. All of the relationships I have with people I actually know are pretty emotionless. Or at least, I let them know that I'm unfeeling beforehand so they aren't surprised when I'm colder toward them than Mello toward someone who takes his chocolate. But I noticed her cuteness before, _yeah,_ but today it was particularly… _radiant,_ I guess?

Damn it.

I've always told myself I don't like her. Not personally, at least. She's so cute I can't stand it on days like today, but once again, she's a weirdo. More so—or, in a different way—than I am. She's really nervous almost all the time, so she's basically a precious bundle of nerves. I'm not. I'm chilled out.

I don't know how to describe our relationship. It's more complicated than I'm willing to try to explain. She likes me, I push her away. She keeps coming back. She may be really jittery, but she's _damn persistent._ All, I might add, while avoiding Roger or any other authority figure from nailing us for inappropriate behavior or PDA.

Oh, if only he knew what goes on in certain sections of the library…

Again, only _slightly_ illegal activities.

What can I say, though? I'm a teenage guy. I have needs. Think stereotypes. And no, not truth or dare. That only happened once and it resulted in the complete banning of females visiting males in their rooms and vice versa.

But hey, I got a blowjob out of it, so I was happy. Damn it. Where's True when I need her?

Oh, right. In her room, probably doing something else also only slightly illegal, like toying with key-copying or counterfeiting. Yeah, she's gotten in trouble more than her fair share of times. Mostly involving me and-or the aforementioned activities. We're kinda like friends with benefits, wink wink, heh.

Don't take that the wrong way. It's not a usual thing. It's more of one of those, every few weeks or month or so. I've only had sex with her twice. Mostly we just fool around. And _daaaamn_ is she good at that, just saying. As I said, friends with benefits.

And I say "friends with benefits" because not only do we, um, _take care of each other?_ But we also have completely separate relationships with other people. Like, she's got the biggest thing for Mello. I don't think he knows that, but she does. It's really obvious to me, of course, but he's kind of clueless sometimes. His head's too high in the clouds. And I, of course, get other chicks to do my bidding. _Only ever voluntarily._ I'm not some jackass like you hear about in bad fanfictions or something.

Damn. Fanfictions remind me of shipping. If I had to ship everyone I actively hang out with—little as I hang around people… Hmm…

I'd probably set Mello with True just for her joy. Near, even though I don't _hang out_ with him—just bug him, like I do Mello, would be with Linda. That much is obvious to pretty much everyone. At least, the one-sided Linda loves Near, but Near's too much of an insensitive bitch to realize or do anything about it. Gary has a big crush on Linda even though she's a year younger than us, but I hate Gary so just to spite him, he's going to be the cat lady who no one loves. Finch and Storm, even though Storm _always_ hangs around Mello's roommate, Blare. I find Storm and Blare as more best friends, (with benefits or otherwise) like True and me.

Wait, who would I ship _myself_ with?

Honestly, probably one of my online friends, Kaila. She's freakin' awesome. Enough said.

It's almost eleven. I'm going to see if I can arrange to meet up with True in the bathroom or something. I want a blowjob. Adrian should be done with his rounds in about ten minutes, and then we can sneak out.

Is there a term for a booty call over the internet?

Summery of today's entry: Sage is cute, I like sex and True's a slut.

Nighty night, don't let the bed bugs bite~

~Matt, the lady killer

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**A/N:** Whoops, sorry I'm a day late, everyone! ^_~ I wasn't home at all yesterday due to school, student council stuff, and a friend's house. It's all good though, because I'm here now. ;)

So this is kind of where Matt takes a total left turn from Mello's journal. It's just my headcanon that Matt would be a wicked perv, so it's going to be reflected in this. :3

Thank you so much for reading (and hopefully reviewing ;) ! :D


	5. Chapter 5

6-8-04

Ugh. Do I have to write in this damn thing _every. Single. Day?! _We should get at least _one_ day off from this. I mean _come on,_ it's Friday! I don't want to do work. We've got enough homework over the weekend—which I think is just cruel and unusual—I don't need to have to write in a journal too. Bah.

I guess I'm just in a bad mood. True was already asleep last night so I had to deal, I forgot about this research paper that was due today and had to rush through it by staying up all night, _and_ we're loaded with homework this weekend. I have better things to do than Biology, Trigonometry, and Psychology. You know, important stuff like rescuing princesses and beating up bad guys with varying methods.

People just don't see the importance.

I haven't even touched my homework for this weekend yet—well, aside from this—and it's already past eleven at night. I'm going to be gone from ten to four tomorrow for the trip into town, including the usual "picnic" lunch we usually have. In all actuality, it's just a sub, chips, and water or juice in a brown paper bag. As I mentioned before, the food's really good. It's just that it's not quite as fancy as a picnic as some people would have expected. At least, my online friends thought so. And the rest of my Saturday is dedicated to Princess Zelda.

That being said, I'll only have Sunday to do all of this junk. I mean, I guess it's alright. Mello's the generic religious dork and will be at church till almost noon, so I won't be able to bug him to procrastinate. Maybe I actually _will _do my homework rather than keep playing videogames.

… And maybe butterflies will evolve to have rocket launchers on their wings and form a world-wide military dictatorship.

Alright, alright, I don't exactly mind writing in this journal as much. I _do,_ however, mind not playing my games for more than say, an hour, save for classes during the week. Writing in this can be fun, I guess. I get to write about whatever I want to, make however many dirty jokes I want to, and actually _not keep secrets._ If I want to mention that I smoke, then hell yeah, I smoke! I also do hack jobs for hire under several different aliases from my untraceable system. I think Hilary Duff is fucking _hot_ and yeah, I can admit here, I jack off to her every now and again. I can admit True gives _wicked_ good blowjobs. Hell, I'll go as far as to say my real name is Mail Jeevas!

Okay, I admit, _that_ was pretty stupid. I got carried away.

_Anyway._ What was I even talking about? Oh, right, homework.

I mean, I guess I understand the whole basis of homework. It's for us students to go back over our skills and make sure we can function on our own and fully understand the topic.

But _come on._ We're all geniuses here! Literally! So why the hell do we still need to have homework if a good deal of us have nearly photographic memories? And yeah, I'm one of those people. I just. Don't pay attention much. But if somebody asked me right now where I was in Ocarina of Time, I could tell you that I am standing two steps and a roll away from the entrance of the windmill in Kakariko Village.

In short, I only remember the important things.

I bet if I were to go into town tomorrow and watch out the bus window, I could probably tell you exactly how many dogs of whichever breeds were being walked throughout the whole ride. Only there, though. I think I'm going to take this along and work on it on the way back. Nothing better to do. I don't get WiFi on my laptop until we're within half a mile from the orphanage, and it's spotty around town. It's easier to just have some of that old-fashioned stuff like, hmmmm, a notebook?

I suppoooooooose I _could_ bring other homework on the bus than just this. Ugh. I don't want to do it, though. It's not hard or anything, it's just a waste of time and a wicked drag. Why do you think I'm only in third at Wammy's? One: to avoid _actually_ being chosen as L's successor, and two: I'm too lazy to actually pass in half of my work.

Not to sound conceited, but I'm pretty sure I'm like. Twice as smart as even Near. But someone with an IQ of 274 and no motivation whatsoever doesn't last long in this world. I'm not planning to, even though True fucking hates whenever I say that. I can't help that I believe that. She might not, but I do, so she can go suck it.

Literally, heheh.

But yeah. I totally don't think I'm long for this world. Hell, I'm bored of it already. What the hell is there for me to do? Something constructive I don't really like or believe in? Sure, but I'll just be whining about it the whole time. I'd much rather waste away playing videogames, smoking, sleeping, and eating junk food. Not necessarily all at the same time…

Speaking of sleeping, I think I'm gonna go do that. It sounds pretty good at eleven twenty at night.

Farewell~

-Slacker genius

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**A/N:** Happy Friday, everyone!

I'd leave a longer note, but I'm about to miss the bus, hehe!

Thank you all for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! :D


	6. Chapter 6

7-8-04

Eight dogs.

Three Labrador retriever mixes, two greyhounds, some husky-Rottweiler mutt, a dachshund, and a silk terrier.

Personally, I don't think those last two really count as _dogs,_ but you know, scientific classifications.

For the record, I apologize profusely ahead of time for my even worse-than-before handwriting. I was bad to begin with, but with the bumping and jostling of the bus, combined with my ingenious decision to sit on the left side of the bus, it's gonna be as horrible as I think I've ever seen it. This is going to hurt my elbow pretty soon, though. Barely half a page in and it hurts from bouncing off the edge of the bus already.

But really, who gets a terrier? Those things are like fur with legs. None of them are notorious for their brains like labs or shepherds. They're just. Ugh. Tiny dogs like that don't do anything but sit on the floor, pee, poop, and shake. In that order. Big dogs, though, can run, play fetch, learn tricks, are incredibly smart and can be trained to sniff out _bombs _and _drugs._ (Not sure how I would feel if my dog started barking at my backpack the first time I bought weed, but you know.) Big dogs can be your best friend.

Little dogs… nah. They can do all of that stuff too, but I just don't think they're smart enough to realize the depth of a meaningful friendship between master and dog, unlike dogs like my old Lab. Of course, I was only six when she died, but she was still the best dog anyone could have ever asked for.

Ugh, don't get me started on my past. It's not something I'd like to rant on and on about in the pages of some journal that could fall into the hands I wouldn't want holding something like that.

Then again, that's pretty much _everyone_ minus possibly Mello, True… yeah, I can't think of anyone else.

Anyway. Speaking of Mello, he's sitting across the seat from me, half-asleep. I swear, the kid doesn't sleep at night because he's too busy doing homework or extra credit work or just plain old studying. So, he passes out on the ride home from town.

Nope, didn't even twitch when I kicked his foot. He's out cold.

I heard him yesterday talking to Mr. Edman. Apparently, he let our Psych teacher read his journal. Well, knowing him, he probably _strongly suggested_ that. But Mel was saying something about soul-searching. Is that _really_ what they expect us to do with this thing? I mean, it's not unheard of, sure, but really?! In our class, we're what, twelve to fourteen? We may be geniuses, but we're still just kids. We shouldn't have to figure out who we are until we're ready, not until our Psych teacher tells us to. Some of us already know who we are.

Which surprises me, figuring out that Mello's not one of them.

I'm pretty sure of who I am, even if I'm only fourteen and a half. But however many times the sun has shown on February first since 1991, I know that I'm a genius asshole slacker who has nothing in store for his life.

That's just how it is.

But Mello? What's he unsure of? He always seems so confident in everything he does—maybe even over confident sometimes. But then again, I'm not psychologist, but I think that's just a guise he puts on for everyone else to rely on. In all reality, he's stressed beyond belief, and just pushing himself over his own limits. He's going to break down one of these days, and honestly, I really hope I'm there to comfort him when it happens.

Before you say anything, no I'm not gay, so suck my dick. Well, um… whatever. Mello's just one of the only people I can even remotely stand, aside from of course True. There's something about bugging him that I really love—he never wants to talk to me, but he always enjoys my company. Especially when he's angry—in that case, I just make some sex joke and he calms down a bit just trying not to laugh or blush or cry or punch something all at the same time. Which, he's actually done before.

But he's always all good after that.

I think of it as my good deeds of the given day. I keep Mello from going over the edge and hitting rock bottom. He just needs to sit back, smoke a bowl, and bake until crispy. Like he'd ever do that.

I feel really weird saying all of this with him sitting literally three feet away from my shoes. He's just sitting there, sleeping. I guess he decided there's nothing better to do on the bus than that. Too hard to write. Ha, but I _am_ writing! If only I could read what I wrote later, that would be fantastic.

Pretty much, the bottom line is: Mello really needs a hug and a bong. Those two things alone would make his life infinitely better than it is right now, I think. He'd be able to focus more on kicking Near's ass and less on worrying about whether he will or not.

Oh, and for the record—I only smoke pot in town with my friends there. They hook me up. So while I may be a bit high right now myself, I still know what I'm saying. Weed clears the mind and lets thoughts flow easier. But I'm a genius and have lived a life of hiding things from others, so nobody would even _begin_ to suspect me. I'll save my explanation of that statement for later, because we're about two turns away from the orphanage. Until tomorrow.

-Joker toker

P.S. Now would be a perfect time to start singing The Joker.

Great. Now that's going to be stuck in my head for the rest of the day.

Peace out for real.

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**A/N:** Happy Friday!

I really like this chapter. I'm not sure why. Maybe I just like the visual of Matt on a bus staring at a sleeping Mello. :3 What about you? :D

Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!


	7. Chapter 7

8-8-04

_Sigh._

Sunday mornings suck.

There's nothing to do when I've finished all of my videogames and I don't feel like restarting any of them. I'm _definitely_ not doing my homework if I can avoid it, and Mello's at Mass so I don't get to bug him till lunch.

I don't know if Mr. Edman would _want_ us writing in the journal on any other time of the day but at night, just before bed, but I don't care anymore. It's ten A.M. This is the only thing I feel like and can do that won't bore me or kill me. I actually enjoy blabbing on and on about my life in here. It's fun. I get to talk about myself, and come one, who doesn't like to talk about themselves? Okay, well, pasts. But. Hmm.

My train of thought hath left without me.

Bah. I don't see why Mello has to go to Mass _every damned Sunday._ All he's doing is sitting in a church singing to a magical being in the sky that probably doesn't even exist. I don't get it. I mean, I respect his religion and all but _damn,_ it seems so stupid to me.

Oh, and in case you hadn't realized, I'm an atheist. And that's not in the annoying teenage boy, "Derp, I'm a rebel and I don't believe in God," without actually believing that. Science has just uncovered too much, the Bible too contradictory, and everything just too fantastic for me to believe. Even if there _was _a god somewhere up there, I just don't think he's worth worshiping like people do.

We're not allowed to play god, (*ahem* Kira) so why should some mystic fellow in the sky be able to? It's like there's someone up there who's playing the Sims with free will on in some households, but it's off in others. If he's really as mighty as everyone makes him out to be, he could at least give us some solid proof that it's him up there doing all of this crap we thought we solved with science. A book that's been edited and changed over the last two thousand years or so isn't proof, either.

So, why should we have to adhere to every single rule some unknown author stuffed in a special book? According to the Bible, dozens, no, probably bordering on hundreds, of things I do in my everyday life are sinful. Swearing, eating ham, premarital sex—hell, throw in homosexual tendencies if you want.

To be clear, I didn't lie yesterday when I said I wasn't gay. Bisexual? Maybe. I still like girls, but Mello…?

I wouldn't say it to his face but I'd totally shag Mello if he ever comes out of the closet. I mean, he's like a negatively charged magnet surrounded by other negatively charged magnets when he's with girls. His own force just pushes himself away. Whether he _wants_ to do that or not, who am I to say? But yeah, he's cute.

It's just pretty obvious he's not attracted to girls. I mean, I'm attracted to pretty much anything with a human heartbeat and a three-digit IQ. Preferably over 200, but I can't really get _that_ picky.

It doesn't really matter, anyway. It's not like I'll get married. If I don't die before then, I'm planning on joining the twenty-seven club, right up there with Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain. I don't care if I'm not a musician. My sex life for the next thirteen years will be just fine with one-night-stands and fuck buddies.

Huh. I feel weird talking about a sex life at fourteen. Eh, whatever. Times are changing. In six months, I'll be fifteen, then in another year, sixteen, and seventeen, and so on. It's not unheard of.

Anyway.

I wonder how many times I'm going to use the word "anyway" as a single line when I get myself off topic in this journal. What the fuck, it's just a journal. No one cares if I get off topic because I'm the only one reading this and **I FUCKING LOVE GOING OFF TOPIC. **Okay, done with obnoxiously scribbling over and over those words…

Rules suck. Why the hell do people still follow them? I mean, I understand how people will just go around raping and murdering everyone in case of anarchy, but why can't we all just use our fucking common sense and _not do that? _Why can't people be trusted to, oh, I don't know, _not_ be that asshole. If everyone could live peacefully together without some superimposed government or rule, then I think that would be fucking dandy. Utopian and ultimately impossible, but who cares? A kid can dream. I just kind of wish I was some Enlightenment kid so I can write a book about that and have it be wildly popular and actually become reality over the years. People tend to follow (and-or live by) those Enlightenment fellows. They had good ideas.

My English teacher would be appalled with my choice of paragraphs. That thing took up almost a full page of this notebook. Well, uh, my handwriting could have helped that out, but that's beside the point.

That's all religion really is though. A bunch of rules put together that people generally follow without regards to anyone else's opinions. If you're religious but allow moral leeway, then here's a big hell yeah for you! Like Mello. He may be the stereotypical church-going Catholic, but he's done and said things utterly blasphemous by most religious people's standards without a bat of his eyelashes. He's open to all sorts of things people generally reject. But maybe that's just because he's a Wammy's kid, like me.

… Wammy's seems to be made up of a bunch of liberals.

Except Roger.

Roger's a grade-A fucking pious-ass wanker.

But I guess that's just his job as caretaker. Hate kids but work with them anyway because you want to control the future's best and brightest. Get money. Be important. Know people. I have a feeling that's his mantra whenever I (or anyone else, really) get in trouble and end up in his office. I swear, if that man doesn't have the patience of a saint, I don't know who does.

Well, lunch is going to start being dished out soon and food food food oh my god food.

What can I say, I'm a growing teenage boy.

Food.

~addicted atheist

P.S. Fuck, I'm coming up with some fucking epic screen names.

* * *

**A/N:** Man, I am just having so much fun in the last day or two writing Matt confessing his love for Mello. x3 To be clear, I just put out the beginning of a collection of oneshots in which M&M come out of the closet called "But It's Warm In Here." C:

/self-advertising

Happy Friday! And good luck to those of you participating in NaNoWriMo. I don't know how well I'm going to be doing this year. I'm not as into my story as I am into writing M&M fanfiction, lucky for you. ;)

Thanks so much for reading, and I really hope you enjoy!


	8. Chapter 8

9-8-04

I take back my comment of Roger having the patience of a saint.

This sucks. Hard.

Normally I don't care when people chew me out for my complacency. It doesn't bug me. Usually. This, though? It's _very_ unusual.

Today, I decided to skip my English class. Well, "decided" is a loose term, but it's the one Roger used. I overslept and by the time I woke up, class was already half over. So I stayed in my room. I only _decided_ not to disturb class by rushing in a half an hour late. I _decided_ to restart a file of Super Mario 64. I did _not,_ however, decide for the power to go out in the middle of the night and reset my alarm clock.

And so, when Roger knocked on my door and I answered, he took me to his office for _him_ to decide… on my punishment. I sat in that leather chair as I have for years, staring at the chink in the window behind him. I always wondered where it came from and it's usually the only thing I really think about while I'm in there. That, and "Jeez, chill out, wanker." Wanker is a word I reserve only for Mister Roger Ruvie.

Anyway, he proceeded to toot his horn in my face, telling me that I couldn't just skip class like that and blah, blah, blah. He finally noticed about five minutes in that my attention wasn't on him, but on the glass behind him. After glancing around to see if there was anything—or anyone—interesting outside, he drew the blinds shut, breaking my stare. _Fine then._

Now that Roger had my full, undivided attention, I finally tuned in to what he was saying. "Matt," he sighed, pausing. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gingerly knelt down before me on his ancient legs. I looked at him, eye-to-eye, poker face deployed. "You _have_ to try your best. I know what you've been doing. You're purposely missing assignments, missing questions, so you'll maintain only your third place. You're trying to keep yourself from success."

"No," I replied, shaking my head, "I'm trying to keep myself from earning a job and a bloody title I don't want."

He didn't understand. I didn't expect him to. Roger went on about the wonders of success and how much I could have if I were to inherit L's name, if only I had the motivation. I listened, or at least pretended to, until he finally blew himself dry. On his last attempt to make me show my true genius, I just shrugged one more time.

"_I don't want to be a detective."_

With a resigned sigh, he let me go.

I started to over-think things on my way back to my room, as True always complains to me about around her time of the month. I always tell her—and I told Mello this yesterday—you think too much and put yourself in a bad mood. That's why I'd much rather be playing video games and/or smoking at pretty much any given time. It keeps me from over-thinking and keeps me moderately content.

Except when you _do_ start thinking, like earlier.

I have nothing, after this—after Wammy's. Two friends, who may or may not give a shit about me in the way I care about them. True and Mello. They're it. That's all. Forget all of these videogames and cigarettes—this is my _life._ Material things like that don't matter in the end. After Wammy's, I won't see Mello or True or anyone I happened to know unless we went out of our way to find each other.

It's kind of depressing me.

I know I'm smart, and I know I could get a job (or just hack) for income and have a nice life in a little city-scape penthouse somewhere. But I'll be _alone._ Just me. No one else.

I've never had a problem keeping to myself before now. In fact, I go out of my way to _not_ see people. But for some reason, _only today, _the thought of never seeing anyone I love and care about again just scares the living shit out of me. I was thinking this same thing just after my old roommate Evan left. He was granted two year older than me, but it still terrified me to think that that's going to be me in such a short time. I'll be headed off on my own to pursue a career I really won't care about at all. I'll be alone in a world of idiocy with nobody on my mental level to talk to.

That's why the human race is only as smart as it is.

We geniuses are only born in small amounts in each generation, but our mental level is so much more escalated than everybody else's that we find ourselves alone within ourselves because nobody can understand the four year old who is making quantum physics theories and discoveries. Then, as we grow up, that loneliness turned into a deep depression that most of us at Wammy's House has been through at some point or another.

And we all know what happens next.

We may be strong intellectually, but we're still feeble-minded when it comes to our emotions. Most of us (aside from those specialty made without pesky feelings) let them get the better of us and we end up like A did, unable to transfer our intelligence to the rest of the world.

We just don't get the time before we destroy ourselves, both consciously and subconsciously.

But that's why organizations like Wammy's House exist—to give those genius kids the companionship we need to not feel quite so alone. To give us others our age who understand what we mean when we completely dissect the String Theory. That's one of the things I like about Wammy's, but unfortunately, it doesn't work one hundred percent of the time.

Holy shit, that was deep.

This is what happens when depression bites me in the ass.

I'm going to bed before I become a therapist for young geniuses…

-Mail "Matt" "Intelligence sucks" Jeevas

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**A/N: **D'awww, Mattieeee! c;

I think this had been one of my favorite chapters to write so far. :3

Happy Friday! I hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!

~Rachel


	9. Chapter 9

10-8-04

Okay, now that I'm not on the brink of waterworks, I think I might be up to mentioning those two humans who contributed to my genetic makeup.

My parents.

The 'rents.

Fuck.

Alright. Here it goes.

I lived with my parents for eight years. The first eight years of my life. I don't know what they did to screw me up so badly—maybe my mom was on drugs while she was pregnant with me, or maybe they just dropped me one too many times, or maybe I was a Changeling the Fey left for them in place of their real son. I don't know.

I really had nothing to worry about. My dad was some big cheese at some nondescript company I really didn't care too much about. Money wasn't an issue. As far as I knew, or could tell from what I remember, nobody in my house was screwed up in any way other than me—and that was only because I was complacent from the beginning.

In all reality, I had the perfect family. The embodiment of the stereotypical "American dream." My parents were still happily married with two-point-four children. I had an older sister and a baby brother on the way. I actually had a _white picket fence_ and a golden Labrador Retriever. I had the perfect mixture of modern-slash-Victorian house with a huge back yard and friendly neighbors. I went to some fancy shmancy private school.

Everything was absolutely perfect. And yet, I always found some reason to hate it all.

Even as a seven-year-old kid, Gameboy attached to my hand, I hated everything except my videogames. I kind of had sleeping issues as a kid (which I am ONE HUNDRED percent happy went away) and so I would sit up at night, playing Pokemon Yellow with a flashlight under the covers. (God, remember when LED screens came out on Gameboys?! Best invention ever.) I never really had many friends and I always kept to myself and my games. I hate to sound all self-pitying and cry-babyish but those games were all that was really real to me for a while.

I still can't really figure out what I ever complained about. I think it was partly what I mentioned in the last chapter, but also partly because I'm just me. Just Matt.

Or, back then, Mail. _Mail_ the name, not the word. Do you know how many fucking "mail time" jokes I got?! LIKE A MILE, PEOPLE, LIKE A MILE. M-A-I-L. THANK YOU.

Shit, sorry. That always annoys the hell out of me.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, it was all perfect and I was a whiny asshole child. That much was certain. Until that stereotypical, orphan-making accident. It was a car crash. They were on their way to pick me up from school that day, and a semi came roaring by them on their right, clipped the front of the car, and sent them both spiraling into the other lane. The entire highway was shut down for the next six hours, and I missed Jeopardy that night.

Oh yeah, and my parents died. My sister watched out for me when we were sent to a family friend's house for the night. Unfortunately, we didn't have any living relatives other than my third cousin I honestly thought was a heroin addict. Needless to say, we didn't go to him.

Instead, we were put into social services. I don't remember much of it, other than playing video games alone in my room while all of the other kids ran around and played and laughed. I went to school, but I didn't care as usual.

Only when that bitch of a teacher confiscated my GameBoy did I actually take a look at any work that was in front of me. It was elementary stuff, and I finished it in no time. I hadn't realized it was as big a test as it was, and soon, a bunch of other people were talking about me and looking at me during my classes. I got my GameBoy back, of course, so they didn't see too much. But after a while, they realized the only time I did anything was when I was bored (read: whenever my GameBoy died/was confiscated). They started to take my games, shove a test in front of me, and watch me like a lab rat in a maze.

When Wammy came, I was relieved. He took me away to go live in Winchester, England at the school for orphanages I'm currently at. Now, things had returned to the way I liked it. I could play videogames almost whenever I wanted, and do work as I pleased. Which, coincidentally, occurred more often than I thought it would have after that. The work was a higher level, more interesting. Of course, it helped that they inserted details of my favorite games in there to get me started, but after that, it was from pure puzzle-loving interest that I did any of my work.

And now I'm here.

I'm third place at the highest level school in the world.

It's just… I don't know in how many different ways I can say _I don't want this._ I don't want to be a detective. I never _asked_ to be a detective. I never asked to come to this orphanage. I never asked to be a fucking genius.

I hate feeling so smart, so arrogant, so borderline narcissistic, but all with good reason! Why couldn't I have been the idiot that just sits in the back of the class and doesn't get any of the jokes people make about him?

The thing I hate about my brain is that when I'm not concentrated on something else—and even when I am, sometimes—I hear, see, feel, hell I taste and _smell_ all of the odd looks and whispers and apprehension of others when they're with me. My video games block most of it out. I can tell when even just talking to someone just by a slight shift in stance, sweaty palms, aversion of eye contact—I can decipher all of these little nuances that tell me that person thinks I'm odd or strange, even among the weirdest of the weird.

I don't want to see it. But I do.

So instead, I bury my nose in those video games, hopefully the music, too, if I can sneak my headphones into class, and just ignore it all. There's a reason for it. That's the reason. I'm not actually as addicted to all of these games as people think.

Although I guess that's a lie; I fucking love video games.

I'm going to go play Final Fantasy.

~ReluctantSmartypants

* * *

**A/N:** Aww, it's okay Mattie, I don't like being looked at oddly either. *pets*

Six more chapters, everyone! :3

Thank you all for reading, and especially you reviewers! :D

~Rachel


	10. Chapter 10

11-8-2004

Happy Wednesday!

And by Wednesday, I mean Wednesday Addams. Meaning, unhappy. After all, Wednesday is the worst day of the week.

Okay, that's misleading. Today wasn't _too_ horrible. It was just kind of weird. Mello wasn't acting all asshole-ish like he normally does. It really kind of put a damper on my sarcasm and sadism receptors. But hey, if he doesn't beat Near up, that means he's less likely to be expelled, which means I'll still be able to see him.

Words cannot explain how much I love bugging Mello. I poke and prod at him and make fun, but we both know I don't really mean any of it. He's the one I can tell what I think about all of the other kids here. I can tell him, guy to guy, that I think Linda is absolutely _gorgeous_ in that white blouse she got for her birthday. He can agree. True just kind of goes, "Sure, whatever, honey," pats my head and goes back to whatever it was she was doing.

But Mello. Mel, when I can pry him from his homework, can be so great. We can sit there and laugh together. At least, for a while. I've never actually gotten him away from his work long enough to warrant any real bonding, but I can still see it happening. It'll happen, and soon, too.

It's fun just to be around him though. With him, I know what all of those girls feel like when they're hanging out with _that_ guy. I don't really care how many cute girls are in Wammy's. I have to admit it, the more I think about it, the more I can't imagine myself emotionally bonding with a girl. Fuck buddies? Oh yes. But an actual _relationship?_ Then again, it's kind of hard to see myself with _anybody_ seriously, for an extended period of time. But I actually want to get to know Mello better than I do now. I want to be the one he confides in. I want to be the one he can rant to or the shoulder he can cry on.

Crap, I'm starting to sound like the narrator of some crappy romcom now. Whatever.

To be completely honest though, I'd really love to switch rooms with Blare. I'd give up my single room to be able to wake up and have Mello there. Hell, I'd probably give up smoking to have that. I think what I really want is to be lying there in bed, across the room from each other, whispering into the darkness. We'd have tone of those uber-deep conversations that solidifies our trust in each other, that lets us feel comfortable enough to tell him about my perfect fuckstorm of a childhood, and he'd tell me all about his. I want to crack that hard shell of his.

I want to climb into bed with him. Not in that way, but you know. I want him to let me feel his hair as I curl up with him. I want to feel the heat of our bodies together and I want to feel his breath on my face when we fall asleep entangled in each other.

This is getting really bad.

These pillows stacked up around me suddenly feel very cold.

I'd never admit any of this out loud, of course. Not even to True. _Especially_ not True. Much as I trust her with some things, I'd never hear the end of it from her. She'd scoff at me and ask me if I was on my period, then she'd whisper my own words to me in the middle of class until I either blush or punch her.

I don't think I'm crazy. Why would I be, for just wanting to be with someone who also happens to have a penis? Really, though, that shouldn't matter. At all. All I want is to be everything I mentioned before, to do it all with that one person I might be able to emotionally _stand_ for more than a week. I'll never really know what _he_ wants unless I just come out and ask, but something tells me he still thinks he's into girls.

I've mentioned it before, he can rarely, if ever, attract girls.

Only one time did that ever happen. Once, about this time last year, he was involved with this girl I talk to occasionally, Kit. I don't see her too often since she's a year younger than us, but she's still really nice. She's that blonde girl who just looks like she's happy with everything. She's never had that outright self-loathing thing going on like every other girl I know. It's like…she sees everything from another point of view than her own. She can compliment her own work on projects in an earnest manner, without being conceited. At the same time, she can pick out clear cut weak points. She has that completely objective mindset that I think everybody wants.

But anyway, in short, she's great. I know that Mello had this huge crush on her back then. It was clear as day. But it was also clear that she liked him back. It's relationships like those I look at and just _wonder_ what they're fucking _on_ to not realize the other person's feelings.

From my view from afar, it looked like everything was going well for them. Kit told him that she liked him and they were all cutesy for about a week. You know, the whole twelve-year-old holding hands and giggling thing.

Unfortunately, that was also exam week. Mello was so stressed out about testing that semester. He had spent most of his time with Kit, up until my unfortunate (but very fortunate for me) incident that got girls and boys completely banned from each other's rooms that happened to occur that same week. He didn't study as much as he usually did.

Now, I saw it all coming, so I compensated. I knew, just by his stupidly oblivious look when he strolled into the classroom that he wasn't going to do as well as he normally did on this test. One would think the opposite would be true, that his relaxation would allow him to dig deeper and actually ace the test and kick Near out of first.

I had hoped that would be the case, but I know Mello. He actually has to work as hard as he does to maintain his grades. Anyway, it was pretty obvious from his look when he got the test that he wasn't sure about at least three or four different answers, and I watched him sit there all worried and stressing when he simply could _not_ understand this one problem.

I'm totally not a stalker; I was just interested in orphanage drama. Call it an addiction.

Anyway, I missed a couple extra questions on the test just in case, and when test grades came back, I was right. I got a 97, Near got a 100, and Mello got one point lower than his usual 99. Kit was there with him, and he totally blew up in her face. It was kind of comical to watch, but it was also pretty depressing. Kit avoided him for the next week and then just didn't talk to him after that. It was a low blow, even for someone as emotionally jaded as Mello.

But maybe I'm the pot calling the kettle black. I shrug.

So anyway, the moral of this story is that Mello _did_ at one point have some attraction to females. I'm aiming to change that. I really want to cuddle with him… huuuuh, shit.

Un momentito, por favor.

I have been beckoned to play flashlight tag. Finch somehow felt that I would enjoy crawling around outside in the pitch black with flashlights.

…Only if Mello comes. I'm gonna go grab him, then. Wish me luck!

It's nice and toasty in the closet.

~Moi

* * *

**A/N: **I totally love Matt's little crush on Mello. It's so adorable I can't write enough of it. TT~TT

Anywho, happy Black Friday! Hopefully you all had a very nice Thanksgiving for my American readers, and if not, I hope you had a nice Thursday. :)

I really hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing; you don't know how much I squee with joy with every piece of feedback I get. ;3

Thanks again!

~Rachel


	11. Chapter 11

12-8-2004

The bittersweet taste of victory.

Before I spoil the thrill of surprise for you, allow me to recount the adventures of today. And before people start flipping out like, "Hey, you're not supposed to talk about your day, just about how you _feel._" Can it. I'll get to that afterward.

It all started in History. History always bores me to death, unless in the form of entertaining video games or something else equally entertaining. I've yet to see that. So, naturally, instead of listening to Mr. Westgate's long, drawn-out lecture on the term of U.S. President John Adams, I passed out. My Gameboy had died and I left it on my desk while I snoozed.

Mello shook me awake. Apparently, he's the only one who'll go out of his way to make sure I don't sleep through lunch. Even Mr. Westgate just chuckled at me, as I heard later, and walked out of the room. Anyway, I scrambled to collect up my things as Mello stood there and watched me.

Then it hit me. My Gameboy had since disappeared from the desk, not a foot away from where my head had been while I was sleeping. I slammed my hands down on the desk, pretty much screaming in Mel's ear, "_Where is my Gameboy?!"_

After a thorough questioning, he had nothing. Only the students in the class had been there, along with the teacher, and Roger as he flitted through to collect the attendance list. I had approximately sixteen suspects to choose from. I tried interrogating Mello even after he denied ever touching it, but I had a feeling just by the growing irritation in his face that he would have decked me had I said another word. I wrote him off my list.

When he abandoned me to go retrieve his lunch, I went on a search. Rule number one: check the teacher first. I rushed to the teacher's lounge and knocked on the door obnoxiously until Mrs. Reyvine answered in a huff. I rushed by her and immediately began questioning Mr. Westgate, all but shoving myself between him and his lunch. "Where is it?"

He played dumb. I persisted, pointing out how he was always annoyed by my complete zoning out in his class due to that "childish device." He just shrugged, assuring me he would have returned it at the end of class had he confiscated it. Revyine swiftly booted my ass out of the lounge.

I went to my own lunch, grabbed a PB and J, and circulated the tables, shaking down my classmates for any possible hint. I got the tenth no from Sage. I didn't pick up any trace of a lie in the body language of _any _of them, which was _really, really_ weird. Then again, I realize now, I sit at the back of the room. Everyone else sat toward the front, their backs toward me, and wouldn't have seen someone brush by and grab my handheld game system that _everyone_ knows I might as well marry.

Finally, I found the student I was previously searching for. True had been eating with the art teacher, what's-her-face (you can tell how into art I am), and she only came to the cafeteria to discard her tray. I slinked up beside her as she was making her way back to the art room, slinging my arm over her shoulders casually, "So, True, you have kleptomaniac habits, correct?"

"I am not stealing the Declaration of Independence for you. That movie is going to be _horrible._" She didn't even hesitate in her confident stride.

"Agreed. But no. I was wondering if you happened to _take my Gameboy SP!_" I enunciated clearly, as she was occasionally hard of hearing when she was caught in the act of stealing. More like selective deafness.

Unfortunately, she shot back a scarily convincing, "Nope. Sorry."

I growled. I've known True long enough to know when she was compulsively lying as soon as she opened her mouth. Her nostrils flared and her head tilted ever so slightly. Even as we were walking, I could see she was telling the truth. I tapped her on the shoulder, reversing direction, "Ugh, fine. Hey, I'll, uh, see you later?" She just smirked at me over her shoulder and nodded, continuing down the hallway.

So fuck. My suspect list was running low, and I thought back over my options as I meandered aimlessly through the halls. It hit me like a slap in the face with a huge fish.

I hurried across the orphanage again, past the cafeteria, past the auditorium and stage, and into the administration wing. The door was closed, so I tapped on the glass window in a rapid succession and just stood and waited. Roger opened the door, obviously glad to see me. He welcomed me into his office warmly, which only cranked up my senses. What the fuck was _Roger Ruvie_ doing being actually kind of nice to me, when he just bitched be out a couple days ago?

I followed him in and blinked in surprise. _Oh. Guests. _That's why. Two men were in the room—one sitting on awkwardly crouched on the chair, and another standing against the wall. My eyes narrowed at the creepy-looking guy at on the leather chair as I noticed my Gameboy Advance SP hanging from his fingertips as he scrolled through my Pokedex. He spoke in a monotone, strikingly similar to a certain first-place sheep I happened to know. "Matt. You truly _did_ 'catch them all.'"

I gritted my teeth, offering up my nastiest glare just for the hell of it, "All 368. Some I glitched." I saw Ruvie settle into his chair out of the corner of my eye. He might as well have had a bucket of popcorn, he looked way too excited.

"Huh." He held out his bony hand, my game dangling from between his forefinger and thumb. The other guest, an old man with a gray moustache, took it without question, closing it with a click. The weirdo just turned to glance at me over his shoulder. I cannot emphasize how _creepy_ his eyes were. "I am Ryuzaki. Before I give your game back to you, I have a few questions for you."

"Me too."

He proceeded to ask me a bunch of questions, mainly deductive ones involving crime scenes and shit I really don't care to remember and record. I answered everyone flawlessly. Or at least, I'd like to think so. Ryuzaki didn't tell me if I was correct or not; he just kept the questions coming.

When he finally took a breath, it was to tell me, "You have been excused from your sixth period class for this." The old man behind him handed me my game with a smile and I took it, pocketing it at once. "Thank you for cooperating."

Ruvie stood and motioned toward the door. "You may go. Ms. Hunt is aware that you'll be coming late."

I turned to leave, but paused with my hand on the door. "Bye, L." He didn't even shift as I said it, confirming my accusation as I strolled out. That really _had_ been the world's greatest detective, the reason for this place, in there, questioning me. He was probably gauging how proficient I'd be at succeeding him. Considering it took stealing my game to get me in there in the first place, he probably already knows about how fucking lazy and careless I can be.

And so now he knows. He knows for sure what I can do. I kind of wanted to lay low, but I honestly didn't confirm to myself that he was who he was until about halfway through the questioning.

Now for the feelings part. I can't get the single thought out of my head:

_Did I just screw up my chances of going unnoticed?_

I don't care how short the feelings part is for today. Just the story took up six or seven pages. In any case, I'm just really apprehensive about his whole thing. I don't want to be L's successor. I don't want to step on any toes while trying to back out of the limelight.

Holy crap, that was an idiom overload right there.

I don't want to get on Mello's bad side by possibly passing him. Not by grades, but by L's approval. I know that's the one thing Mel's been trying for since he got here: approval. He wants to prove to himself and to everyone else that he can do it, that he can be L's successor. He can do what I can't, what I don't want to. I have the ability to, but I'd reject it in any case. Mello _has_ to try, but I just breeze right through, without even thinking.

Am I wasting this chance? Wouldn't my happiness be a proper sacrifice for the highest position possible? I'd be losing my free time. Mello. True. Everyone, really. I'd be completely alone, and expected to work nonstop on cases I don't really find much interest in.

But it would make the world a better place. Just, Hell for me.

I won't be able to sleep tonight. I know it already. So, time to play some comfort Halo.

~Matt

* * *

**A/N: **Hm, little untold story of Matt and L. And Mello thinks he was the only one to meet L. ;3 Not in this story, sorry Mel!

Happy Friday! :3 I hope you enjoyed, and thank you bundles for reading. :)

~Rachel


	12. Chapter 12

13-8-04

I am so glad Wammy's is funded by L and not some cheapskate like, oh, I don't know, Roger Fucking Ruvie.

That man. I swear, one of these days, he's going to "accidentally" wake up with a fork in his neck. He fucking hates kids, so why in Hell does he direct an orphanage for, oh, look at that—KIDS. I mean, I guess you could go with the general statement that we're more mature than most kids our age. We're geniuses after all; we scare him because we're smarter than him. But no matter how high our IQs are, that's still just what we are. Kids.

It's like he's got this oh so hilarious pastime involving nailing me for every single thing I do that is even remotely out of line. It's even worse because _he makes up the rules_. I mean, I'd be just going about my business, day after day, and all of a sudden he decides it's a felony to stop on the side of the hallway and tie your shoe, just when I do it.

So you know how I couldn't sleep last night? I got bored of my videogames pretty quickly, so I just kind of laid there in bed, staring at the ceiling. For six hours afterward. I wrote that entry at nine at night. It was almost four in the morning by the time I started to drift off, the soft hum of my blank TV lulling me to unconsciousness.

And yes, I leave my TV on all night. No game playing or anything unless I'm in the middle of a huge plot moment I get bored with and can't save at. Just a black screen. Just enough to illuminate my room so that I can see everything without having to wait a half an hour waiting for my eyes to adjust.

I overslept again. Either I sleepwalk and turn my alarm clock off, or that one's nearing its final resting place. Anyway, Ruvie poked his head in to see if I was still in bed, "skipping class" again. After successfully waking me up, he noticed that my TV was still on, the three letters "AUX" shining in the corner of the screen.

Ruvie jumped from grumpy orphanage director to aholian energy Nazi in two seconds flat. He ranted on about how the orphanage already paid so much for electricity and blah blah blah, I couldn't care less.

I really don't know who he thinks he is. Yeah I'm grateful for Wammy's house and everything, but he's not really tied into that. He acts like a fucking horrible father to me or something. Even if he _was_ biologically related to me like that, I still couldn't call him a father.

A real father would know that I keep my TV on all night because I am fucking terrified of the dark. It's irrational and childish and stupid, I know. I _know_ that there's nothing abnormal that would ever be in my room , but it feels like every time I find myself in the pitch dark, there's this unbearable sense of panic. I've only ever had panic attacks few and far between over the years, but it's pretty much a guaranteed thing as soon as the lights go out. That's why I'm pretty paranoid about having a flashlight along my bed frame with a huge stash of batteries in my desk.

I don't know what caused it. I don't remember a time when I wasn't terrified at night. I don't remember anything going through my head other than choking anxiety. Only the stupid idea that I was going to die. Now, with the lights on, it's all so frustrating, knowing how meaningless it really is, but drowning in my inability to control it.

It's all things like this that nobody knows. I'd likely murder anyone who found out. I mean, I generally don't care what people think about me, but that's something I've always kept to myself.

This journal is becoming more and more off-limits to everyone except me. Yes, I still write as if talking to a reader. It's easier that way.

While we're on the topic of fear… I have this thing, I guess you could call it, for being the last person left on earth. Autophobia? Solipsism? Both, really. After all, I think everyone is, at least a little bit, afraid of that. Lots of people will try to say that they'd love being the only person alive in the world. They'd raid department stores and get whatever they want. There'd finally be some peace and quiet. But loneliness kills. After too long with no human contact, even the greatest of people will go batshit insane from the pure silence. It's just a matter of how long it will take.

That's specifically why if (or rather, when) the zombie apocalypse happens, I'm definitely collecting my own team. Just a small group of people, so we can move quickly and easily cover each other, as well as have companionship. It'd definitely be at least Mello, True, and Finch. I'd like to say Near, too, for his brains, but really, the last thing we'd need in that situation would be Mello and Near at each other's throats. We'll have enough zombies doing that. Besides, Near can't run. He'd be picked off first. Then probably Finch and True, and then Mello and I would go down fighting, back to back, Hollywood style.

You could say I've planned this out a little. Wink-wink smirk.

Honestly, a zombie apocalypse is probably my number-one way to go. Who wants to die of old age, or some disease like cancer, or in a car crash involving some drunkard and a pickup truck? No, my death is going to be spectacular. I'd like to die in the epicenter of a zombie outbreak, but if that doesn't happen, I can think of plenty of other ways I could do myself in with a little fun. Bungee jumping with a broken cord is high up there, as is skydiving without a parachute. No pun intended. Or, submerging my room in three inches of bleach and then dumping a huge tub of ammonia everywhere. Get shot in a police raid. Go over Niagra Falls in a bucket of nails.

Like I said, plenty of ways. I'd just need to decide when my life was no longer worth living. That's a loaded question, though. My life was never worth much, and will likely never be worth more than that. If I died right now, right here at this very moment, it wouldn't matter. People would be sad for a while. True would be bent. Roger would likely be relieved, at least on the inside. They'd find this notebook and find out that I was a gay, complacent, borderline suicidal genius and then everyone would pretend to have cared about me. Mello would be confused as to what I ever saw in him, wonder just how gay I was for him I was. Roger would find out just how much I hated him, as well as my beneficial friendship with True. She'd get in trouble and male-female relationships would be monitored beyond reason.

But that would all pass. Life would go on, with me as just a faint memory. And I'm perfectly okay with that! I don't see the appeal of being remembered. Memories cause distractions from the present. I don't do anything memorable enough for people to think of me more than once after I'm gone. I've lived a quiet life for the most part, and I'd like to keep it that way, until my spectacular finale. That's why being famous never appealed to me. Junkie TV stars and singers—especially American ones—get involved with those things that'll kill you, and it ends up as no surprise that they keel over. It becomes, "Hey, did you hear? So-and-so died." "Oh, about time."

No.

I want to be the one when someone heard that I'd died, they'll go, "The hell? Really?" and they'd respond with, "Yeah, and you'll never fucking guess how he did it!"

Call me crazy. I am.

For the record, I'm not a masochist. I don't self-harm. None of my suicide ideas involve me suffering much. I either go _splat_, pass out, or am dead on contact. I don't want to die a _painful_ death, just an interesting one. If I _did_ want a very painful, very theatrical death, I'd probably end up cutting off my toes and dropping them around my room before blasting my head off in the bathtub.

A word of advice: Don't do _anything_ I mention in this entire journal. At least, this entry. Trust me, it's for your own good.

Honestly, when it comes down to it, I'm not even sure if I'd be _able_ to kill myself. That's why I have to answer that question: is my life still worth living? I don't foresee any big importance or event in my life other than my death. But right now, thinking about it, I don't want to die. Not yet. I'm not ready.

Right now, I couldn't pull the trigger. I don't know what it is, but it feels like there's more I have to do, more I _want_ to do. I won't be dyin' for a while if I have anything to say about it.

But that's the exciting part, right? You just never know. I could die at any time. For all I know, I _will_ die tomorrow after tripping down the stairs and breaking my leg or something. Bone marrow in the bloodstream is kind of a bad time. But _I don't know. _That's why I'd rather have control of my own death, rather than waiting for it to come and find me.

Jeez, I just realized how this entry went from bitching about Roger to my fucking asinine fear to the zombie apocalypse to my expected suicide.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

~Zombie survivor

P.S. I will survive! I will survive! As long as I know how to love, I know I'm still alive!

* * *

**A/N: **Great, now I'm humming that song...

So Mattie's mentally unstable side came out in this chapter, quite a bit. I know this isn't exactly the most popular of personalities for Matt, but it's the one, for me, that sparks the best ideas. ;3

Happy Friday! Hope you have a great weekend. C:

Thanks for reading, and reviewing, too!

~Rachel


	13. Chapter 13

14-8-2004

Second-to-last day of this. Let the countdown begin!

To be completely honest, I think I'm going to miss this. A little. Not nearly enough to keep writing after it's done, but it was fun while it lasted. It's given me a chance to talk about myself for a while. Being the general ghost of Wammy's House, I don't get to talk too much at all, much less about myself. It's been good, complaining about all of my little psychological issues to a piece of paper. Apparently that's the only thing that'll listen.

Then again, I don't go around begging people to hear me and listen to my story.

I'm not particularly revealing, in person. If you haven't gathered that yet, I'm worried about you. I don't like people knowing my weak points. I'm not one of those pansies who run around crying about my problems, begging everyone for sympathy. No, not even close.

But what I know at least _some_ people understand is that it's harder to keep it all to myself. I don't want pity, but I don't want silence. So, I have to find a happy medium with a pen, rambling on between myself and my imaginary reader.

It's weird, though. It's perfectly acceptable to write to yourself, to spill your troubles into a notebook, but if you _talk_ to yourself, you get a boost to the top of the "Suspected Insane" list. What's the real difference? Audible or legible? That's nothing. I can't figure it out.

You know what? The same thing goes for imaginary friends. I find the entire idea of them incredibly depressing, but heartwarming all at the same time. I mean, think about it. A kid doesn't just make up an imaginary friend because they're bored. It's because they're lonely and need someone, some_thing_ to talk to when no one else is around. I think there's a genuine bond between a child and a form of its imagination, specifically for that reason.

An imaginary friend is _always_ there, no matter the circumstances. They're better than the closest friend, closer than anyone else in the world to a kid.

And it's only a figment of their imagination.

Before the question rears is little head, yes, I have had an imaginary friend. It's pretty hard to find a kid who hasn't. But I remember every little creature or person or inanimate object I've given a personality to, despite their existence being limited solely to my head. I had a little white, iridescent rainbow dragon. His name was Moon, and I swear to God he followed me around, flitting around my head from the time I was five to the when I turned eleven. I kind of forgot about him by then, but he still comes around every now and then.

Moonie was my peudo-pet. I figured, dragons were cool, my lab wasn't allowed out of the kitchen when I was little, and we can't have pets at Wammy's, so I'd make my own. He had these little super powers and everything; he could grow and shrink to his will, project colors and images (his favorite was a rainbow), and he could do the whole vision sharing thing, like with that book Eragon. I remember "hatching" him, and watching him grow up with me.

But eventually, I decided that Moon was just as lonely as I was, so I conjured him up a girlfriend, Lexi. She was a cute little pink dragon with full shape-shifting abilities, the ability to turn invisible (kind of ironic, now), as well as pooping gumballs. Yeah, you read that right. _Pooping gumballs._

I was a pretty fucking awesome child, I'd like to think.

But what blows my mind is the complexity I put into their characters, how they grew both physically (in my head, at least) and emotionally. Moonie went from being a happy little kid to mature, noble dragon who only lived to protect me. And Lexi went from bouncy, bubbly girl dragon to a stunning, strong, and independent dragon who stood beside Moon in his mission to keep me safe. And of course, they were mates, after all of that.

I still like to imagine them flying around in the air outside, their wings shimmering with sunlight. It's nostalgic.

Sigh. I'm bored.

The sun is too bright in the afternoon. My curtains are open barely a crack, but that one line of light has the impeccable aim to land right in my eyes while I was lying on my back on my bed. My goggles kind of saved me from being likely blinded, but it was still bright enough to irritate my brewing headache.

I have to admit, though, it's pretty nice out there. It's summer in England and for once, it's not raining. It's kind of cloudy out there and OH MY GOD THAT ONE LOOKS LIKE AN ELEPHANT.

If I believed for sure in a god, I'd say that cloud formations like that were like little Easter eggs for the observant. Throughout however long I've been watching clouds, I've seen a lobster, a hamster in a racecar, a Triforce, a stapler, plenty of dragons—there have been a lot of them. I think clouds are one of the very few reasons I'd ever really like nature. If I had some cloud generator thing as a ceiling someday, then I might just be able to die happy.

It's so cool looking at low-flying clouds. That elephant looks close enough for me to reach up and stroke it's forehead. Even if that's technically impossible, and I would come back dripping wet.

Darn, my elephant's drifting off. Aaaaaaaand now there's a lion wearing a wide-brimmed top hat.

It seriously takes some imagination to stretch those blobs of white into images that make marginal sense. I'd like to think I have a good imagination. For one, I pulled a lion in a top hat out of a puffy white cumulus cloud. For two, I had my aforementioned imaginary friend for _years. _But I can pull pretty much _anything_ out of my ass in a pinch, if I needed to. I can argue anything. _Even if it's against the laws of physics._ I got somebody to doubt _gravity _with my ramblings. I think I'm pretty impressive.

It's amazing what some people will believe. Now, I really don't want to go on a tirade about society and marketing these days, but you can be sure, people will either believe _anything _or _nothing. _It's almost as if logic itself doesn't even exist anymore in the common person. It's really sad, seeing how my generation outside of the genius level are so goddamned annoying.

But then I can't help but swell with pride at some _others_ my age. The people at Wammy's don't count; we're all pretty amazing (except Gary). But people like Kayla and all of my other friends online, kids I hear about in the news, some other fourteen-or-so-year-olds I see around town. There can be some pretty shitty kids like the one who flips off an elderly lady eating lunch with her half-deaf husband… but then there are the pretty commendable kids, like the one I saw a few weeks ago who bought this other random little kid another ice cream because he dropped it. From what I heard, he didn't even know the kid.

Things like _that_ make me hopeful that not _all_ kids my age are raging assholes.

Fuck. I wanted to write more, but the sun's headed down soon and dinner's about to be served. I don't fancy _completely_ wrecking this journal just yet, so I think I'll leave it here.

Imagination is such a wonderful thing.

~Dragon-loving Dreamer

* * *

**A/N:** Hahaha, there is absolutely _no _correlation between Matt's leaving for dinner and my business lately. ^_^"

Anywho, this is the third-to-last chapter of this! D: How quickly time has gone. I've gotten plenty of requests for a Near's Psych Journal as well, which I might go through with! I think I'll be waiting until the New Year's gone by, so I have a bit more time, if I do write Near's. :3

If I hadn't mentioned it before, I also have a new poll up on my profile! Voting on it would be wunderbar of you, thanks!

Happy birthday to our little Matsuda today, and a slightly belated Mello's yesterday! (or two days ago and yesterday, in some parts of the world!)

I hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading! :D

~Rachel


	14. Chapter 14

15-8-04

Thank the space-time continuum it's over!

One day. This is the one day I have to fill out again, and then I have no real reason to write in this anymore. No reason to _keep_ it either. It's kind of a shame, really. If I left this notebook to be found after I died, that's all anyone could ever know about me. This journal had heard all that I have to say for now, and that's a hell of a lot more than I've told any living person.

It's sad in one of those queer, overemotional and depressing kinds of ways. Yeah, I'll have more time to play video games once I finish this, but I'll also have more time to myself.

I don't like being alone. But at the same time, I don't want to let anyone in.

It's the cruelest and most twisted and agonizing and frustrating combination ever. It's only been since I began this journal, though! Maybe by halfway through or so, I started to find myself longing for someone to talk to, an actual person who can respond to my tirades, rather than a one-sided rant on a few sheets of lined paper.

This book had become my new imaginary friend. Moon and Lexi are gone, all grown up and protecting other kids. Now, I speak through this crappy old blue pen to a reader I know I'll never have. Still, some part of me takes on that role—the role of someone learning about some weirdo genius kid from a school in England. But it's more than just a role really. I actually _am_ learning a lot about myself through this, as the assignment had originally intended. For once, I've been outplayed in my effort to be different. Edman found a way to get me to voluntarily work, in a way that _literally works for everyone_, if they take it even semi-seriously. I just don't know how he does it. Psychologists are freaks of nature.

…Maybe I should be a psychologist. Or a therapist. A pediatric therapist. I'd sit there and listen to kids and teens cry and whine about how much their lives suck. When they snap and tell me I just can't understand, I'll remind them that I was a kid once too, who had to go through the shitstorm that was my childhood. If they ask about it, I'll tell them about it, and in no uncertain terms.

And I'd get paid.

…Nah, I'd probably just end up smacking the kid on the back, telling them to suck it up and grow a pair. My office wouldn't last too long under those methods. Most kids in town I see these days… They're way too sensitive.

I think I like my original plan best. I'll just chill out, hack the bank accounts of some gang for money, and live it up playing video games and smoking, all in the comfort of my own home. _Alone._

I can't get over what these last two weeks have done to me. When I started this, I was ready to take on the world on solo mode. There was barely a shadow of a doubt. But only thirteen says later, here I am, lamenting about what it'll be like when I have no friends to speak of. Barely _any_ human contact, really.

I remember hearing something during a psych lecture about Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs and all that jazz. Self-actualization was on the top, but one of the levels below that was what, belonging? Social health? Being involved with people and groups and interaction and shit? With the direction my life seems to be headed, I won't get that. I might as well just cut that out of my pyramid and mark it as an optimistic fantasy.

Much as thinking about it depresses me, this whole deal over these last few weeks has been kind of refreshing. I feel like I'm more aware of things than I usually am. I mean, I'm typically the one to have my nose stuffed in my Gameboy, but I haven't played it all that much recently. It's not like me to think so much about the future, but rather than distracting me like I thought it would, it's made me start thinking.

In the last couple days, I've actually thought about what impact each and every decision I make will have on the rest of my life. Not huge differences, but after watching every season of Doctor Who since 1964, I know that each and every event happens in a specific pattern. A small change can have a surprisingly huge effect.

...Then again, I don't see myself hopping in the TARDIS and going back to change the fact that I got spaghetti instead of a meatball sub for dinner tonight…

I know I've said that once life gets too boring for me, I'm going to just off myself in the most spectacular way possible. But still, I can't imagine any other reason for me—or _anyone_ to ever commit suicide like that. Any of that self-harm stuff, really. What does that accomplish? Fulfilling some masochistic fantasy, maybe. But most people who commit suicide, like A did, do it to escape a problem. Not because they're just tired with life.

You know what? I'm not the one to be able to talk about that kind of shit. I have no argument against anything involving killing yourself. I'm not allowed to even _try_ to argue about it anymore. Because, okay, I'll fucking admit it. I almost went through with it a while ago.

For most people, just the thought that _holy shit I almost killed myself and yet here I am all alive and happy and shit_ would be enough to get them to not even think about doing it again. For others, it was merely an inconvenience that kept them alive, and life really never gets any better so they try it again. I guess I'm one of those others.

I don't know. I just didn't really want to live anymore. I still don't, but I'm just too afraid of death to do anything about it. I was fucking terrified because I didn't know what would have happened, or what awaited me, if I actually _did_ leave myself dangling from the ceiling of my room.

Evan probably would have needed therapy after finding me like that, that's for sure.

But beyond that. The afterlife? Is there even an afterlife? Not knowing the answers to those questions is really all that keeps me here, alive, right now. That, and that weird feeling that I have to do something, like I mention a couple days ago. There has to be _something_ I have to do, and I won't just be a fucking example like A. I won't be the one everyone looks back on, whispering between each other, "Don't let the pressure get to you. Don't end up like _him._"

I don't want people to look back at my death with contempt. I want people to look back at my death with _downright fucking awe._

I must have been dropped when I was little. I don't think many other human beings really think about this kind of thing, other than possibly mentally ill psychopaths who will probably ending up murdering a dozen or so people before they kill themselves. Nah, I'll be harmless to everyone but myself.

But as for that one time… it was around my birthday last year, when I was turning thirteen. I realized that I was getting older and that I was a teenager now. I was old enough to think about the fact that I don't want anything from life, and that I didn't expect anything in return for staying here. The only payout I'd ever get was relief from unrelenting boredom and monotony of life.

I was just going to hang myself right there in the middle of my room. I had my belt ready, the catch on it having been torn off a long time ago. There was even a hook on the ceiling from where my roommate kept his plant at the time. He claimed it oxygenated the air in there, making it easier to think. I just saw it as a panacea for life. Hook one side of a particularly strong leather belt on that, the other around my neck and kick the chair.

I hesitated, tears flooding my goggles. In that split second, I heard a knock on the door. It was True, wondering if I was going down to lunch. I pulled everything down, tossing my belt into my closet and hooking Evan's plant back up, wiped my goggles clean, and joined her to eat. The cafeteria was serving grilled chicken with mashed potatoes that day.

Fuck, maybe I should just scrap every plan I have for the future and just become some sappy angst writer. I'm certainly fuckin' good at it. And no, I'm not crying what the fuck do you think those spots on the page are, tears or some shit?

(Actually, I _am_ crying. But don't listen to me.)

I don't know what it was that kept me from just going back and trying again after lunch. True kind of felt that I was down in the dumps and cranked up the sympathy and soft smiles and curbed her compulsive lying and droll remarks. I was pretty thankful for that. When I asked her why she felt the need to come and get me, she only replied with something like, "I just felt like I had to."

Things like that make me fucking sob like a toddler, and I almost did right there. I never _did_ tell her the truth about that day. Still, I have a feeling she knows.

It makes it really hard not to believe in supernatural beings when something like that happens, but since then, I've just shifted it off to pure, dumb luck, True's ability to be the best friend I've ever had so far, and the fact that I have to do _something_ before I die. I don't know what, but I have a feeling I'll know when it happens.

I do wonder, though, what _I_ of all people, could be called upon by the world to do? I'm just some whiny little genius orphan with a slight acquired English accent. Sure, I've got skills, but I've never really used them for anything but my own mischief, and I don't plan on changing that. There are only a handful of people I'd ever use them for, but I don't imagine seeing them after Wammy's, anyway.

So what am I left to do? Will I change my mind? Will I actually put my brain to the use it could be and find the cure for the common cold or cancer or something?

Only time will tell. And I'll tell you now, time isn't on your side.

In fact, time's up.

* * *

**A/N:** I didn't know I wanted that ending till I wrote it. o.o

Anyway, this is the end of Matt's written part of his journal! I'm sorry it's late; I've had a bunch of wrapping and parties and junk to do so I didn't get around to finishing and posting this until just now. D:

In any case, the epilogue should be out as usual on Friday. I'm still toying with having another chapter _after_ that, so you might get an extra chapter out of it. ;3

I really hope you enjoyed, and have a happy holiday!

~Rachel


	15. Chapter 15

_Shink._ The sound of a lighter clicked in the silent late summer air, and soon the glowing tip of a cigarette was all that could be discerned in the pitch dark woods. Booted feet crunched over leaves and under branches, weaving between trunk after trunk.

The air was crisp. It was a sure sign of the coming fall, only accentuated by the sharp dryness of the forest. The black void above was dotted with stars, with not a cloud to obscure them.

Matt finally slowed when he approached the familiar small clearing—only perhaps fifteen feet across at its widest. It had been previously used as Wammy's House's personal campsite until a small wildfire broke out one summer. Since then, it had been abandoned by all but one person: Matt.

There was another scrape of his red lighter and the flame illuminated his face for a moment as he scraped together a handful of kindling and lit it within a small circle of rocks. Once the flame caught, he piled on the firewood he had collected earlier, until the fire crackled warmly before him, casting long, dark shadows on the area.

Matt settled onto a fallen log, the light of the small, controlled fire flickering across his face, his cigarette still hanging from his lip. He pulled the green and black composition notebook out of his vest and stared at the cover for a moment, thinking of all of the secrets he'd spilt on its pages. Secrets of cigarettes, sex, suicide, his future, his past, his present. All in one tiny notebook.

His fingers picked at the cardboard cover for a moment, glancing at his messily scrawled, "Matt" over the front cover. The pages were revealed with the hesitant flick of his wrist.

Matt couldn't help but grin goofily at the book. The smirk that he held on his lips was tainted with not happiness, but a sort of empty sadness. After tonight, no one else would ever read what was written between each almost uniform blue line. All of the secrets within would be wiped from the face of the earth. No one but him would ever know about his stereotypical American dream family: devout churchgoing Christians with two-point-five children, a dog, and a white picket fence. No one but him would know of his involvements with True. No one but him would ever know of his insecurities about his complacency. No one but him would ever know about his crush on Mello. No one but him would ever know about his musings on death and suicide.

When he came to the last part of his journal, he gazed at his messily scrawled admissions, his heart beating an extra beat every time he read something about suicide. Within his mind, Matt beat himself up at even having the thought to kill himself. If he was to do that, he would be no better than the thousands of other teens who die by their own hand. He was stronger than that, and he knew it. But at the same time, he was also selfish, uncaring about almost anything but his own feelings and emotions.

If he wasn't murdered, it would be completely sure, he decided, that he would commit suicide. _Screw the precedents. _

What he scribbled down about people's reactions to his future death was completely true. He believed it with all of his heart. They'd react, then forget. He would be nothing more in death than he was in life. _A suicidal waste of flesh. _Matt could only give a contemptuous snort at himself.

He gritted his teeth and, shaking with a sudden thick, sticky frustration at himself, Matt tore the single page viciously from the binding of the notebook and threw it into the fire before him. It sizzled and curled in on itself and was soon no more than blackened soot settled at the bottom of the pit.

Once that first page came out, the others were soon to follow. As his eyes skimmed his words inked across the first few dozen pages of the notebook, anything that struck any sort of negative emotion in his already distressed mind was ripped out and burned. One by one, Matt disposed of his feelings and thoughts, tearing them all from the spine of the notebook haphazardly. All except for one entry, the one that didn't quite fan the flames in his heart, more than made his stomach flip. He flicked his almost spent cigarette into the fire.

With sad, bare blue eyes, Matt stared down at the page on which he admitted his admiration for the blonde. It seemed so nonchalant, so _normal._ But if it was so normal, why did it seem so chokingly difficult to admit it to Mello himself? What exactly was it? A fear of rejection? Of isolation? Or maybe he was just afraid that he would _actually love him back._

Even with tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, the redhead could only smile each time his eyes passed over the name: "_Mello._" There was something about his alias that Matt couldn't shake his admiration for. It was so simple, but so unique. While he'd never been told how it came to be, he felt there was some sensitive spot in that rock-hard shell that would always be there, a tender spot that would twinge every time his name was called.

The word "mellow" had a completely new meaning for Matt after knowing that blonde kid for so long. The meaning had gone from a sort of pale yellow, languid peacefulness to crackling black envy and anger all pent up within an opaque bottle for no one to see.

_Crunch_. Matt's ears caught the racket of a branch breaking somewhere in the woods. His head whipped around, his tearful eyes landing on a pale-skinned figure. His body tensed and his heart fluttered as he registered the owner of the familiar blonde hair. It was Mello, as if he had leapt from the pages of Matt's journal.

"Hey." Mello paused at the edge of the clearing, regarding the redhead and the fire before him, his notebook resting wide open in his lap. He cleared his throat, swaying slightly on his feet. "What are you doing?"

Matt's breath caught in his throat for a moment before he drew in a long breath, looking back to the journal. The words flitted across the page before his eyes, obviously proclaiming his hidden admiration for the other teen standing there in the woods with him. Should he spill those words? Let them loose from their binds of blue printed lines with the freedom of the spoken word? All of the insecurities about his little crush came rushing back to him in that moment, only a split second debate lasting for hours within his head.

He let out his held breath with a long sigh. "Nothing." Defeated by his own fears, Matt slowly ripped the final written-on pages of the journal from the binding of the book, tossing it into the center of the fire to join the rest of his words.

Mello hovered for another moment before taking a step forward, entering the clearing and settling onto the log beside his friend. "Stupid assignment, huh?" He glanced at Matt's now-empty notebook, the remnants of the pages he'd written clinging desperately to the cheap spine. It was the only evidence that he had even written anything in that book anymore. The rest of it was reduced to ashes.

"_Really_ stupid. I don't know how he expected us to learn from this shit," The gamer mumbled sluggishly, any sort of enthusiasm sapped by the heavy truth behind his thin and feeble lie.

Mello paused for a moment, folding his hands together as he watched the last bit of paper fold in on itself. "Yeah."

They both knew the truth. Matt knew for a fact how much writing for only fourteen days made him reconsider his choices in life, question his future, and for once in his life, feel _lonely. _Much as he didn't want to, or even attempt to admit it, he knew it was true, just as true as it was for Mello. The events and thoughts of the last two weeks echoed in their minds as they sat there on that warm summer night, listening to the calm quiet of crackling fire and chirping peepers.

It was Mello who broke their silence first, throwing a sideways glance at Matt. "I think I'm going to keep mine. You know, in case I get bored or something…" When the redhead only kept staring at the sand between his feet, the blonde drew another breath and began, "Sorry if you wanted to be alone out here. I was on my way back from a late library trip and I saw you walking out, so I followed." Matt still ignored him, afraid that if he so much as opened his mouth to speak, his voice would crack and everything would come spilling out like a broken damn. Mello just cleared his throat and looked back to the fire.

Finally, after a full five minutes of tentative silence, Matt felt brave enough to attempt to speak. "I don't mind. I'm actually kind of glad it was you and not Roger or Adrian or something." He lowered his voice to a bare mumble, hoping the crackling fire would stifle it, "Or anyone else. Especially True."

Having just caught the last two words of his mumble, Mello's eyebrows drew together questioningly. "I thought True was your best friend. Why wouldn't you want her out here with you?" He observed Matt from the corner of his eye. He clenched his teeth, feeling that his friend already knew of his awareness of the few tears trails left behind on his cheeks. Mello picked at his fingernail, sinking back into his own thoughts.

It turned out that Mello was right. Matt felt the damp lines on his face blared out for anyone to see. He didn't even bother trying to hide it anymore. There he was, sitting beside his crush, only a few feet's ways away from resting his head on his shoulder. Matt could almost feel the warmth of his body beside him. His heart constricted, and he shifted back to the fire, watching as the small bundle of flames burned itself out, devoid of much more fuel than the notebook pages and a good-sized branch or two.

When the embers laid low in the pit, Matt wordlessly stood and kicked sand on top of the smoldering remainder, pulling a miniature water bottle from one of the pockets of his cargo jeans and emptying it out atop the sand. He glanced at Mello, who had stood up behind him, and started back toward Wammy's House, each of Matt's confessions left charred in the pit behind.

_End_

* * *

**A/N:** And that's it for Matt's Psych Journal! Sorry I kind of dropped off the face of the earth for a week there. Even so, I am back with the final chapter. That's right, I didn't decide to write one more chapter after this. Matt's writing days are over.

Just to clarify, Matt's Psych Journal and Mello's Psych Journal both occurred on the same two weeks in the same timeline. If you'd like to see Mello's, it's complete on my profile. ;3

Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing! You're all a bunch of darlings. While I know some of you weren't exactly into Matt's crush on Mello, I'm really thankful you kept reading anyway, despite your views. I appreciate everyone I manage to touch with my writing!

Special thanks to my reviewers: shyangel101, Bladefire Alchemist, BriGirl, Kiterious, Hashigami, lolgreeness, Reaper7, Jeenso, MattLovesAmaya, and AMelloMelody.

And of course you darling, Kale. :3

Thank you all so much! It's been great!

~Rachel


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